


The Decent Thing to Do

by gutsforgarters



Series: Bethyl Holidays Fest 2019 [3]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BHF2019, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 04:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21421993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutsforgarters/pseuds/gutsforgarters
Summary: “I just wanted to say that it’s real decent, what you’re doin’. That little girl's lucky to have somebody like you lookin’ out for her.”
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Beth Greene
Series: Bethyl Holidays Fest 2019 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529537
Comments: 21
Kudos: 82
Collections: Bethyl Holidays Fest





	The Decent Thing to Do

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Ultimate Bethyl Fic List's Bethyl Holidays Thanksgiving Fest, to fill the prompt "dinner." 
> 
> I wasn't sure what to write for this prompt at first, but I got a shot of inspiration while re-watching Season 2, because even the quieter, shyer Beth of that era would absolutely be the sort of person to show kindness to a grouchy stranger. As always, thanks to the UBFL admins for organizing and running these wonderful fandom events ❤️

When Daryl hears somebody shuffling around outside of his tent, he figures it must be Rick or Andrea or maybe even Carol, because who the hell else’d go out of their way to check in on his ornery ass? Rick thinks he’s responsible for everybody, even though he ain’t; Andrea’s still trying to exorcise her guilt by going out of her way to be decent to him; and Carol…well, Carol’s obviously getting too attached, latching onto him as some kinda surrogate for her lost little girl, and as soon as Daryl’s well enough to do anything other than laze around convalescing like a bump on a log, you can bet your ass he’s gonna be nipping _that _shit in the bud. Carol doesn’t need to set herself up for disappointment like that when everything’s already gone to shit as is, and _Daryl_ doesn’t need to live with the look on her face when he inevitably lets her down.

But. Anyway. If it was one of those three, they would’ve announced themselves by now, or just plain ducked inside already, and whoever it is hasn’t done either of those things. Could a walker’ve wandered this close to the farmhouse without anybody noticing? Probably not, but Daryl wraps his hand around the hilt of his Bowie knife, anyway. Tell you something else, he’s gonna be _pissed _if it _is_ a walker and it manages to get its dirty teeth in him. Because, you know what? He didn’t survive a tumble down a ravine, an arrow to the side, two hungry geeks, and a bullet grazing his fucking skull only to get bit now. Just, fuck that.

“Um, Mr. Dixon? May I come in?”

So. Not a walker, then. That’s something, he supposes.

Daryl lets go of his knife and curls his empty hand against his abdomen, although he doesn’t precisely relax, either—not that he ever really does, not even when he sleeps. He doesn’t recognize the voice calling out to him, but that don’t mean he can’t make an educated guess as to who it must be. It’s just process of elimination, because there’s only one person on this farm he’s never heard speak, and that’s Hershel Greene’s youngest daughter. The shy little blonde girl; the shrinking violet who tends to fade into Maggie’s louder, meaner shadow.

Beth, he thinks her name was. Yeah, he’s pretty sure that’s it. He’s heard Hershel and his people calling it across the yard, a time or two. A plain, quiet name for a plain, quiet girl.

“Mr. Dixon?” She’s whispering now, like she suspects he might be sleeping and doesn’t want to disturb him just in case he is. And Daryl really doesn’t wanna deal with this shit right now—or ever—so he’s of a mind to let her go on thinking that, except he must shift around unconsciously, must make some kinda noise, because then the shadow outside his tent crouches, and a slim pale hand nudges the flap aside.

Beth blinks wide blue eyes at Daryl, reminding him of nothing so much as a cornered doe—kinda ironic, seeing as _he’s _the one who’s cornered. She’s balancing a tray in her lap, and on that tray sits a short stack of sandwiches, some sorta bundle all wrapped up in a napkin, and a tall glass of water that’s sweating condensation in the late summer heat.

Daryl squints out the mesh panel to his left; going by the lengthening shadows, it’s coming up on dinnertime. But why the hell is _this girl _bringing him food?

Beth’s mouth wobbles. It’s real pink, that mouth. He probably shouldn’t notice that. “Um, hi. I just—I figured you must be hungry.”

Oh, Christ. Daryl really,_ really_ doesn’t want to talk to her, but it looks like he’ll have to if he wants to shoo her off, because clearly she ain’t taking his ringing silence as the dismissal it is. “M’good,” he mumbles, except his stomach chooses that moment to gurgle like a dying animal, loud as thunder in the close quarters of his tent.

_Shit._ Daryl’s face collapses into a scowl, and Beth sinks her teeth into that pink lower lip like she’s trying not to laugh. He could shout at her to fuck off just for that, but if he does, she’s sure to go crying to her daddy, or worse, that loudmouthed sister of hers, and Daryl just doesn’t need the trouble. So, swallowing his irritation like the bitter pill it is, he pushes up on one elbow and jerks his chin at the tray in Beth’s lap.

“Quit wastin’ my time and jus’ hand it over already, Christ.”

He’s being deliberately rude—as opposed to his usual unthinking bluntness that other, fussier people just happen to _interpret _as rude—and Beth’s lips purse, but she doesn’t snap at him to mind his damn manners the way her big sister probably would’ve. Nah, she just scoots farther inside and sets the tray down in his lap—sets it down a little _too _hard, matter fact, like maybe she’s trying to get back at him by accidentally-on-purpose nailing him in the balls.

Goddamn brat.

Daryl transfers his scowl from Beth’s face to the food in his lap and peels one of the sandwiches apart to check what’s on it, not that it matters much. He’ll eat anything anyone puts in front of his face, especially these days.

“Hope you like chicken,” Beth says, and Daryl just shrugs because it’s better than raw squirrel, anyway. “I brought you some cornbread, too. It was—it was my momma’s favorite.”

Daryl gets a pang in his gut when she says that, and he can’t even dismiss it as a product of his healing wound—too far to the right. Part of him wants to say he’s sorry or whatever for the people she lost when the world went to shit, but she’ll probably start crying if he does, and he’s never, _ever_ known what to do with himself when somebody cries. So instead, he just makes a wordless sound of acknowledgment and takes a sloppy bite out of his sandwich, hardly even tasting it, he’s so keyed up.

But Beth doesn’t mumble a goodbye and get gone like he was expecting—_hoping_—she would. Nah, what she does is plunk herself down on her skinny ass and pretzel her coltish legs like she’s, what? Like she’s getting _comfortable_?

Jesus. Christ.

Daryl swallows his hunk of sandwich and glares across its remains at Beth. He knows he’s gonna regret asking, but he still says, “What?”

Beth scratches her nails against her jeans, fidgety. “Just wanted to say I was sorry, is all. Y’know, about Nelly. Heard you took a real tumble ’cause of her.”

It’s funny. Just yesterday, Daryl was ready to make that horse into glue, but now…now he just shrugs and mumbles, “Don’t matter. Survived, didn’t I?” And that’s all that matters in the end, ain’t it? Surviving. You climb outta that ravine and you _survive_.

Beth nods, all solemn like, except Daryl _swears_ that’s a smile tugging on the corners of her mouth. “’Course, if you’d _asked_ to borrow a horse ’stead’a just_ takin’_ one, we could’a told you Nelly’d wind up tossing you ass over tea kettle.”

Daryl’s eyebrows wing up. So. Maybe not as shrinking as he’d thought. “Mouthier’n you look, ain’t’cha?”

Yeah, she’s definitely smiling. Looking at that smile makes Daryl’s skin itch, for some reason—and not, he thinks, because his bandages need changing. 

“Don’t tell my daddy,” she says, like they’re in on the same secret, like they’re _co-conspirators _or something like that. “He’ll make me put a nickel in the swear jar.”

Yeah. Speaking of her dad. “He know you out here?” _With me_, he doesn’t amend, but only because it goes without saying. All alone in a ratty tent with some dirty redneck asshole, never mind that he would never touch her, never mind that the thought only occurred to him at all because he knows it would occur to someone else. Never fucking mind that he’s recovering from a bolt to the side and a bullet to the skull, ’cause he’s still twice this girl’s size and carrying a knife the length of her goddamn forearm.

He knows how people think of him, knows _what_ they think of him. He ain’t as dumb as he looks, and he _knows_.

Merle was right, is the thing. Far as Rick and the others are concerned, Daryl’s no better than dog shit.

And Beth—Christ. Beth shakes her head _no_, just like Daryl was afraid she would. Goddammit, what if he _was _the kinda man who liked to hurt young girls? She’s got no way of knowing that he ain’t, and she put herself in a vulnerable position anyway, the stupid little fool. Fuck, what the hell else did he expect from the sheltered farmer’s daughter?

Stupid question. He knows exactly what he expected from her: nothing. He didn’t expect nothing from her, ’cause she wasn’t worth noticing at all till she marched in here and _made_ him notice her.

Daryl’s hunk of sandwich sits like a stone in his stomach, and the rest of it languishes forgotten on his plate. He brings his thumb to his mouth, chews on the nail instead of chewing on his food.

“What about your boyfriend?” he asks, kind of grasping at straws, now. He _thinks_ that skinny kid with the tapioca pudding face is her boyfriend, anyways. He’s seen them holding hands, at least, like there’s any room left for that kinda lovey-dovey junior high shit in a world like this.

Beth crosses her arms, drawing Daryl’s attention to her hard, toned biceps. Huh. Guess she ain’t as scrawny as he thought. “Jimmy ain’t the boss’a me.”

Yeah. Daryl’s starting to suspect that _no one’s_ the boss of her, not even her overbearing sister. “He know that?”

“He’d _better,_ ’less he wants to try doin’ his chores with my boot lodged up his butt.”

Daryl huffs a startled laugh, then winces when it makes the wound in his side twinge. Beth blanches and sits forward on her knees, hand hovering in midair like she wants to check his bandage or something. She doesn’t, though, thankfully. Daryl’s had just about enough of people getting up in his space.

“You okay?”

Not really, but when has he ever been? “Had worse,” he says, because it’s true, but when Beth looks unconvinced, he rolls his eyes and snaps, “M’fine, girl, Christ. Mind ya damn business, huh?”

Beth’s blue eyes go flinty, and, yeah, he’s starting to see the family resemblance between her and Maggie. “You’re a guest on my dad’s land. That_ makes_ it my business.”

Anger licks up Daryl’s spine and buzzes in his brain, makes his wounds throb. He wants to call her a spoiled little _bitch_ and tell her to fuck off on back to her pretty little farmhouse and her pretty little family, but his boiling temper fades to a simmer before he can fire the words off his tongue. He scrubs roughly at his face, rakes his fingers through his oily hair without a thought spared for his stiches. Christ, he’s tired. He’s just. So goddamn tired. Can’t remember a time when he wasn’t.

“What you want from me, girl, huh? You bored or somethin’, that it?”

But when Daryl drops his hands, it’s to find Beth looking at him with wide, earnest eyes.

“I ain’t afraid of you, Mr. Dixon.” She doesn’t say it with bluster or bravado. She just says it like she’s stating a fact, so that Daryl has no choice but to believe her. “So you can quit tryin’ to scare me off. I wasn’t gonna stick around for much longer, anyway.”

“Thank fuck,” Daryl mumbles, but Beth just huffs at him and keeps on talking. ’Course she does. He thought she was quiet, but apparently there’s no stopping her once she gets going.

“I know what you’re doin’,” she says. “For that little girl. I know you got hurt while you were out lookin’ for her.”

Daryl’s skin prickles like he’s got a bad sunburn. He focuses on a point over Beth’s shoulder, the frizzy edges of her pale hair blurring in his periphery.

“I just wanted to say that it’s real decent, what you’re doin’. She’s lucky to have somebody like you lookin’ out for her.”

Daryl snorts. _Lucky_. Was it luck that gave her a violent deadbeat for a dad? Was it just plain luck that the world ended before she could finish growing up? What about when she got lost in the woods? Was she lucky _then_?

If Beth hears him scoff, though, she doesn’t react. Just says, so gently that Daryl wants to cover his fucking ears, to _run_, “I dunno if you’re a believer, but I’ll be prayin’ for you both the next time you go lookin’. ’Cause there_ will_ be a next time, won’t there?”

Daryl drums his fingers against his sleeping bag. Clears his throat. “Don’t got nothin’ better to do.”

He makes the mistake of looking at her face, then. A _mistake,_ because she’s smiling to show teeth now, and he feels a little bit like he just looked directly into the sun without shading his eyes first. It’s too bright, and it fucking _hurts_. 

_Not plain_, he realizes. _Not plain at all._

He blinks, hard. Looks away. Retrieves his sandwich but doesn’t bite into it.

Beth shuffles around some, and when Daryl finally looks in her direction again—not at her face, though; obviously that shit’s hazardous—he sees that she’s crouching at the mouth of his tent. She clears her throat, nods at his tray.

“Don’t worry ’bout takin’ that back to the house. I’ll swing by tomorrow and pick it up then.” Yeah, Daryl sure hopes not. “Evening, Mr. Dixon.”

“Yeah.” Daryl drops the sandwich and picks at his cuticles. “Thanks.”

Beth hesitates, then says, very softly, “You’re welcome.” The tent’s flap swishes shut behind her, and Daryl drops his head against his pillow with a groan.

Christ. Used to be women’d cross the street to avoid his shady-looking ass, and now they’re lining up to bring him dinner and call him _decent._ At least Beth didn’t kiss him or something the way Carol had. He probably would’ve combusted if she’d tried.

But, well. Guess hers wasn’t the worst company he’s ever endured.

He listens to Beth’s retreating footsteps, then unwraps the cornbread. Takes a bite. It’s soft and fresh and warm, but even if it was cool and stale, it’d still be a helluva lot better than raw fucking squirrel.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you know that the northern variety of cornbread is sweeter than its southern counterpart? I didn’t. And now I want to eat cornbread.


End file.
